


Post-coital Breakfast

by Castillon02



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, Food, M/M, Post-Coital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-17 22:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7288780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond convinces Q that he had only the purest of motives when he snuck downstairs to make French toast on the morning after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Post-coital Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JaineyBaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaineyBaby/gifts).



> I asked myself, "What's the fluffiest thing I could write for @jordankaine?" and this is what came out. Hugs, Jordan! <3

Q wakes, nose twitching, to the scent of vanilla wafting its way up the stairs. Below, he can hear a sizzling skillet and someone singing, something-l’amour-something, in a low, cheerful voice.

Food. Cooking. He blinks his eyes open and turns to the other half of his bed: no one.

Which means… _Bond is cooking_.

“No!” Q shouts, shoving his glasses on his face. He leaps out of bed, his mismatched Spiderman socks skidding on the hardwood floor, and thunders down the stairs. “So help me, Bond! You’d better not be doing what I think you’re doing!”

But Q slams past the kitchen doorway and a beautiful, custardy, cinnamon-vanilla smell hits him straight in the face. Bond is—oh, damn—he’s flipping cinnamon-glazed French toast in Q’s cast iron skillet, Q’s best spatula in his hand and Q’s blue TARDIS apron wrapped around his bare chest.

“You shit,” Q breathes, stopped in his tracks. The apron string is tied behind the broad, naked expanse of Bond’s back, a few inches above a pair of blue boxer shorts that Q finds too big on himself and wonderfully obscene on Bond.

Bond had to have heard him coming, but it’s only then that he turns around, robbing Q of the magnificent view of his arse. The smile on his face is a bit too pleased to be innocent. “Something the matter?”

Q wants to snog that half-hidden smirk off his face, but he’s not sure at what point Bond stops having sexual relations with his one-night stands. After leaving the bed? Once breakfast has started? What if he has one foot over the threshold of Q’s property and one still on it? What about after he takes off the apron?

“Hmm?” Bond’s smile widens.

Q recovers himself and glares. “You knew I wanted to make post-coital breakfast! I specifically told you! And yet I find you doing…doing this!” He waves his hand to indicate the traitorous golden stack of French toast piled high on a plate next to the stove. Bond has also found Q’s jug of authentic maple syrup and has even had the nerve to slice a bowlful of ripe, glistening red strawberries as well.

“I considered waking you up,” Bond says, “but then I thought that you’d naturally want the best morning-after breakfast possible.” He favors Q with a cocky grin.

Designs for a Bond-shaped ejection rocket assemble before Q’s mind’s eye. “Oh? The _best_ breakfast, you say?”

“Obviously,” Bond says. He flips the last slice of French toast out of the skillet and onto the plate with the rest, as nonchalant as if he hasn’t just declared culinary war, but the way he cuts his eyes at Q from under his lashes speaks volumes.

Bond wants to play.

Q stifles his smile, straightens his spine, and assumes the air of a disappointed school-marm. “I do love French toast, but it’s such a shame we’ll have to settle, isn’t it?” He tsks.

Bond’s features take on a fixed sort of geniality. “Settle?” he asks, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “I’d hardly call this settling.” He tears off a corner of French toast and eats it with his eyes closed in apparent bliss. Then he plucks a strawberry slice from the bowl behind him and sucks it into his mouth in the most lascivious way possible while holding Q’s gaze, mischief in his eyes.

Q can’t help it—he flushes. But his cheeks also shake with the effort of keeping a serious face while watching Bond practically go down on a bit of strawberry. He nearly bites his lip open when Bond’s performance crescendoes with a series of exaggerated erotic moans, complete with hip thrusting.

Q raises his eyebrows after Bond finally swallows. “Of course, all of that looked very good. Nice and appetizing. Congratulations. Really.” Q then deploys one of the larger bombs in his arsenal: the pity-nod.

Bond coughs a laugh into his arm and says with a strangled voice, “Well, it _is_ a _Michelin-starred recipe_ —”

“Right,” Q says, cutting him off, walking forward until he’s close enough that he could haul Bond to him by the front of his stolen apron if he wanted to. “I’m sure that your ‘Michelin-starred recipe,’” he gives the words air-quotes and mentally cackles at the expression on Bond’s face, “is very tasty. It’s not at all a product of your culinary inferiority and the fear that my own breakfast would demolish yours into delectable oblivion. Darling.” He smiles sharklike into Bond’s face.

Bond leans forward. “‘Delectable oblivion,’ hmm?” His eyes linger on Q’s lips, the innuendo wordless; he pointedly avoids using air quotes. “Prove it,” he says, his breath warm in Q’s ear.

Q shivers. A moment later, though, he’s grabbing Bond by the apron and biting into his adorably freckled shoulder, because, “What did you think I was trying to do when I asked you to wake me? Feed you some rubbery scrambled eggs and toast with orange corn syrup instead of real marmalade?”

Bond busses him on the lips. “You weren’t this bite-y last night,” he says, and then, “No. I was thinking it’d be a shame to settle for just one post-coital breakfast with you when I could goad you into making another one.”

“You—oh.”

“Another, obviously inferior one,” Bond adds, and sucks some errant strawberry off his thumb in a way that isn’t sexual at all, which somehow makes Q want to snog him even more.

“We haven’t even tried yours yet,” Q says, and fetches two plates and some silverware so they can pretend to be civilized. “Anyway, what if it ends up being a tie?”

“I don’t think so,” Bond says. “Can’t have a tie. If we’re unable to decide whose breakfast is best, then there will have to be a rematch.” He serves himself and offers Q the bowl of strawberries.

Q heaps some strawberries onto his plate, and some of the mouth-wateringly golden french toast and syrup as well. “And what if I win? You don’t seem to have taken that scenario into your calculations.”

“If you win, I will also be forced to ask you for a rematch,” Bond says promptly, faux-solemn, but his eyes are still and searching.

This, at least, isn’t an answer that will need to be found through an ongoing series of innuendo-filled culinary battles. Q says, “Funny, I’m going to say the exact same thing if you win.”

Bond’s kiss tastes like French toast and strawberries.

In the back of Q’s mind, he’s already planning their next breakfast menu.

Bond deepens the kiss.

Maybe the avocado bacon hash can wait a little while; after all, they’ve got time.


End file.
